The Healer's Touch (22 page)

“Hello there, sir.” She slammed the door. “I hope I'm not bothering you all but I'm trying to track down my nephew—the no-good one? If you don't mind, I'd like to have a look-see at your poster board.”

“No, ma'am, don't mind in the least. That thar board's been a real source of interest these days.” He chuckled to his friends and winked.

The two male visitors who sat in the office grinned. Elliot said, “Seems everyone's looking to collect a reward these days.”

“Oh, I wouldn't take money for my nephew's capture.” The woman spoke in a high falsetto. “I plan to personally wring his neck.”

Joseph stalked to the board, heavy boots scraping the floor. He noticed the men's eyes fixed on his feet. Edwina Bolton's shoes were a little roomy even for him.

Pausing in front of the board he scanned the row of pictures for an image of himself. So far the sheriff and others hadn't looked past his boots, so if he was a Younger he'd so far managed to successfully hide his identity. It must be all that rouge.

His gaze traveled over the row of wanted notices. These men looked like fifty miles of bad road, but he didn't see his image, no one even close. Bending closer, he recognized the name John Jarrette, a man he'd come across about a month ago near St. Joseph. Jarrette. Joseph grinned to himself as it became clearer. The man had been shot and was dying; he'd offered his saddle if he'd bury him. He'd complied. Jarrette had a pretty hefty bounty on his head.
Twenty-five thousand dollars. Joseph gave a low whistle. He knew where Jarrette was buried. Only thing was, the poster said he was wanted
alive
. There went twenty-five thousand dollars. His gaze shifted to the next poster.

And there it was: Jim Robert Cummins. The name stood out like the second coming.

He bent closer. “James, son of Samuel and Eleanor Cummins, rode with Quantrill and Anderson. $5,000 reward for cattle theft and spittin' on a sheriff.”

Five thousand? He'd understood Cummins had at least a seven thousand dollar reward on his head.

He paused. He remembered…The road scuffle. The chase.

Norman. That rotten horse.

The light.

Memories rushed back like waves into a flooded cave. He wasn't a Younger or any outlaw at all. He was Ian Cawley, grandson of Irish immigrant grandparents who had raised him when his parents died of disease. Grandpa was a carpenter, made the finest furniture in the city.

The men's voices buzzed in his ear. He felt hot, then ice cold. He was about to be
hanged
with folks thinking he was a mealy-mouthed penny-ante outlaw?

He wasn't about to go down like that.

Trying to regain his composure, he turned back to the posters. The faces all seemed to blur together. Rubbing his eyes, he focused on Jim Younger's likeness. James Younger—known as Jim. Thirty-five thousand rested on his head. Now there was a bounty. He and Jim had a long-running feud. Both declared they would attend the other's hanging. Since Jim was on the opposite side of the law, Ian figured he would easily win the bet. He'd arrested Jim some years back and he'd done time for a bank robbery, but was released three years ago. The outlaw was thought to be still in the company of his gang here in Missouri.

Thinking straighter now, Ian turned on his heel and stalked back to the front door, opened it, and slammed it on his way out. Papers fluttered on the sheriff's desk.

“Who was that?” the first man asked when the door banged shut.

“Don't rightly know—ain't seen her around before. Got real manish features—and did you get a gander at those feet? Looked to be bigger'n mine.” The sheriff got up to straighten the windblown papers on his desk.

“Don't mean to be hateful, but that thar's about the homeliest female I ever laid eyes on,” Edgar noted.

“She could have used a good shave,” the other man noted. The men chuckled.

“Well, as I was sayin' this minister and billy goat walked into a saloon…”

11

W
hen Ian rode up to the Bolton house, Lyric was sitting on the back steps cracking walnuts with a hammer. A couple of sizable sassafras roots lay beside the stairs. Dismounting, Ian dropped Norman's reins and let the horse graze. During the ride home, the whole of his prior life had fallen into place, and he'd had to shake his head at the irony.

A U.S. marshal. He was anything but an outlaw. No wonder the title had been fitting like a horse collar around his conscience.

He stepped up and sat down beside Lyric, removing his hat. “Looks like you've been busy.”

“We didn't gather enough walnuts this fall. Lark has such a sweet tooth that I've used all my supplies making fudge, and I found another bucketful this morning while I was digging sassafras root.”
She glanced over and her jaw dropped. “Joseph, why are you wearing a dress?”

“Oh, the dress…I had business in town.”

“Wearing Mother's dress?” Her gaze moved to his feet. “And Mother's boots?”

“I needed a disguise. I wanted to get a good look at the posters on the sheriff's wall.”

“You're not there. I've already checked.”

“No, I wasn't there.”

“Why would you take such a risk? Did anyone recognize you?”

“No, the sheriff had two visitors. They were too busy telling jokes to notice me.”

“I want you to promise me you won't take such risks in the future. And never wear rouge again.”

He tweaked her nose. “I promise, Mother dearest. What were you saying about the walnuts?”

Her gaze returned to the chore. “The meat may be dry, but there could be some good ones left.”

“You said you were making fudge.” He eyed her. “What is fudge?”

“You haven't tried it? It's a delicious kind of chocolate—quite the sugary treat. I'm told you can add all sorts of flavors but Lark likes vanilla with black walnuts.”

“So you're getting ready to make this fudge?”

“No, I think I'll bake a chocolate cake instead and perhaps add a few nuts to the frosting, but I am boiling sassafras roots later. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“In a minute—and don't go to any trouble. I can fetch it myself.” He leaned back, stretching. It felt good to know who he was. His immediate urge to tell her about his memory returning faded. He had some serious thinking to do before he involved her any further in the misunderstanding. She would need to know that he wasn't an outlaw, but he needed at least twenty-four hours to come up with a solid plan for catching Jim Younger and avoiding a hanging.

Ian should have let Cummins go—he wasn't worth the chase and certainly not what the outlaw had put him through the past few weeks, but the little weasel had become a source of pride with him.

Five thousand dollars.

He shook his head, grinning at the irony.

She glanced over. “Something amusing?”

“No, just thinking.” He focused on the brilliant sky, unusually blue this morning. “What are you going to do with the bounty money?”

Lyric furrowed her brow. “I haven't let myself consider that overly much. You're not well enough to be…hanged.”

“How healthy does a man need to be? I figure I must be getting pretty close.” He flashed a sideways grin. “All that fine cooking you've been feeding me is fattening me up.” He patted his flat stomach. “They're going to need a stronger rope.”

She calmly picked a nut from the cracked shell. “I hardly think that hanging is an amusing thought.”

“Not amusing, but interesting.” He shifted. “What brought you to the conclusion that I was a Younger—or that I was an outlaw, period? I had no identification on me, no horse—did I smell like strong drink?”

“No. I found a bank bag in your saddle roll that contained some money and the day's receipts. I…well, I assumed that nobody but an outlaw would be carrying that…plus tear my barn door off without being highly intoxicated, and nobody around here drinks to excess other than the outlaws.”

“Without a horse, how would I have torn your door down?”

“Well…” She tossed the shells aside. “I realize now that I assumed quite a lot that night. Perhaps not all of it was true.”

He caught her eyes and held them. “That's good to know.”

“How do you explain the bank bag?”

He could easily now, yet he couldn't without telling her his memory was back. “I can't, but maybe the bank bag wasn't mine. Maybe someone dropped it by the wayside and I picked it up?”

“Technically I suppose anything is possible.” The color in her cheeks heightened. “Whatever I assumed that night, I don't feel that way now. I cannot make myself believe that you are a criminal.”

Their gazes held for a long moment, and he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her the truth, kiss her fears away…but he wanted to protect her more. If he involved the Boltons directly in his circumstances they would be in real harm's way. When he had a plausible escape plan—a plan that would bring James Younger to justice while saving his own neck from the hangman's noose—then and only then would he tell her. When he was free of this situation he would explain everything to Lyric, and she would understand. A woman like her didn't come along every day, and he didn't intend to lose her through a misunderstanding. He trusted her with his life, but at the moment he had to regain that life in order to offer it to her.

He shifted and returned to star-gazing. “What would you do with thirty-five thousand dollars?”

“It isn't certain that you have a bounty on your head,” she reminded him. “And even if there is, it wouldn't be that high.”

“But if I do, I'm going to assume that I'm the biggest, baddest outlaw in these parts. What will you do with the money?”

“If that were true, I would leave here the moment I collect it. I'd take Lark and we'd go as far away as possible. Maybe if the bounty was big enough we'd go to a fancy school where Lark could get a fine education.”

“What about your mother?”

Her gaze fixed on the walnut. “She gets weaker every day. I don't think it will be much longer now.”

“You won't leave her here alone.”